


Care of Magical Creatures

by stillaseeker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Morning Routines, Potterlock, Romance, Teenlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, Valentine's Day, Wizarding boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillaseeker/pseuds/stillaseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...or, <i>How to navigate your life without falling <strike>deeper</strike> in love with a mad genius, who also happens to be your flatmate.</i></p><p>A Treatise by John Watson.</p><p>(Potterlock AU where John is a trainee Hit Wizard and Sherlock is...Sherlock.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care of Magical Creatures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SailorChibi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/gifts).



> Written for the Valentine's Day Gift Exchange organized by Johnlock Challenges on Tumblr.

Have you ever met someone and thought — _Christ, you’re going to break my heart, aren’t you?_

John has. 

::

The worst thing about being Sherlock’s flatmate isn’t what people tend to think it is. It’s not the blood stains on random articles of clothing (usually John’s), or that one time John came home to Muggle fireworks in the flat (and the Muggle fire department outside), or even the constant, creeping suspicion that dinner has somehow been contaminated by human remains (a great way to put yourself off food and stay fit, actually)…Nope. None of that comes close.

The worst — the absolute _worst —_ part about living with Sherlock Holmes is that he knows exactly what Sherlock feels like around his cock.

(It’s pretty spectacular.)

So…every time Sherlock commits yet another abomination against living standards, and then stares at John blankly, like an unrepentant Kneazle, when John reacts like a human being, John feels an irresistible urge to stick his hand down Sherlock’s pants.

It’s playing hell with John’s blood pressure.

::

It’s Friday, and John wakes up to a Sherlock-sized lump pressing against his ribcage.

Dawn filters through the gap in the curtains, casting a dim, blueish glow on John’s bedroom, reminding John of the time he’d snuck into the Slytherin Common Room and stared, entranced, at the magic of living underwater. Shafts of light pick out the curves and hollows of Sherlock’s sleeping form — the jut of a hipbone, the concave notch in the small of his back, the gravity-defying roundness of his bum — like bits of lost treasure, half-buried in the folds of John’s duvet. Hazily, John wonders whether there are shoals of fish and the Giant Squid drifting past the window, instead of clouds.

Sherlock snuffles, his head tucked into the crook of John’s neck — tiny, breathy arpeggios that rise and fall with the ebb of John’s pulse. It’s rare to find Sherlock asleep at this hour. Usually, he’s either crazy-eyed from another late night experiment, or perched petulantly on the sofa, cranky from lack of sleep but refusing to go to bed.

John traces the line of Sherlock’s carotid artery — stroking his thumb up the dip of Sherlock’s clavicle to the hinge of his jaw, like a miniature wave rippling the surface of Sherlock’s skin. There’s a wet patch on the Muggle T-shirt John wears to bed, right beneath the sleep-softened bow of Sherlock’s mouth…Christ, Sherlock’s drooled on him again.

John’s about to fall back to sleep, his eyelids slipping shut, when Sherlock stirs, mumbling a nonsense string of slurred syllables that somehow all sound like the word _John_. His lips graze John’s neck, making him shiver.

“Mmmmh. John. Time’ssit.”

John has a love-hate relationship with Sherlock’s voice — especially in moments like these, the rare times he catches Sherlock half-asleep. Drowsiness mellows Sherlock’s baritone to a rumbly purr, like crushed velvet over a bed of gravel, and his cut-glass diction fades into elided consonants and the hint of a childhood lisp. For some reason, this has the power to turn John’s insides to utter mush in about two seconds flat.

John clears his throat, untangling his fingers from where they’ve slid into Sherlock’s hair, and reaches for his wand on the bedside table. A practiced flick of his wrist, a _Tempus_ , and the numbers float above their heads in fizzing, golden sparks.

“It’s a quarter past seven, sleeping beauty.”

Sherlock squints against the dissipating pool of spell-light, his eyes mere slits of pale blue. He makes a face, then burrows back into John’s shoulder, mouthing discontentedly against cotton, “It’s too early. ”

“Mmm.” John turns his head, breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s hair. “Have you been smoking again?”

A beat of hesitation, and then a _“Nooooo”_ rumbles from somewhere in the vicinity of John’s chest.

John laughs.

“You filthy liar.” He drops his wand on the bed, his arm grazing Sherlock’s bare hipbone. Sherlock’s skin feels like the highest thread-count bedlinen — luxurious, indulgent, made to be touched. Sherlock sighs — a drawn-out, lazy solfège of sound — and swings a leg across the tops of John’s thighs, making John huff from the sudden weight.

“I needed to test different types of cigarette ash.”

John rolls his eyes. “That…doesn’t sound at all like a self-serving experiment.”

“It’s for _science_ , John.”

“Mmmm.” John knows there’s an appallingly soppy smile on his face, but it’s too early to be bothered by that. “For _science_. Like the time you ‘tested’ the stain patterns of different types of newt blood…by pouring blood all over my socks. Or the time you decided to harpoon a Pogrebin, and then took the Tube back to the flat. Or….I know! When you had a sudden brainwave and wanted to know whether Muggle dishwashing liquid tastes like — _Mmmph!”_

Sherlock tastes faintly sour, like stale cigarettes and morning breath. He curls his tongue into John’s mouth, flicking it knowingly against John’s own, making John groan and instinctively clutch at Sherlock’s hips, just above the waistband of his boxers. Sherlock’s warm skin feels heavenly against the patches of John’s chest where his T-shirt’s ridden up.

Crawling over John’s body, Sherlock bobs his head while nibbling at John’s bottom lip, sucking on it in a protracted, toe-curling tease. Smiling despite himself, John nips Sherlock’s upper lip in retaliation, tracing the curve of that cupid’s bow with his tongue to make Sherlock gasp.

He can feel the outline of Sherlock’s cock poking his stomach, a hard warmth, damp at the tip, that makes his abdomen clench in an answering throb of heat. John cradles Sherlock’s head with his hands, twisting his tongue _just so_ to make Sherlock moan — small, kittenish gasps that are swallowed by John before they become sound, even as Sherlock straddles John’s hips, caging John in between his thighs.

It’s…unbearably wonderful, like oxytocin pumping directly into John’s veins, making John crave more with every hit. Kissing Sherlock’s always like that. 

Just as John’s about to say _fuck it_ and slide his hand through the slit in Sherlock’s boxers, the alarm charm on John’s bedside goes off — blaring an obnoxiously loud, off-key rendition of _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts…Teach us something please!_ Christ, John really needs to change the bloody song on that spell.

Sherlock groans, pulling himself off John and melodramatically flopping onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes. His mouth glistens, sloppily wet from their kiss. John fumbles for his wand in the bedsheets, casting a _Finite_ and halting the song midway through.

He sits up against the headboard, dragging a hand through messy hair. “Bugger…I need to get ready for work.” John ignores the ache drawing his balls tight against his body, and pokes at Sherlock’s calf with his big toe. “What’re you up to today, then? Are you getting up at all, or will I come home and find you swanning around in your dressing gown and goggles again?”

Sherlock harrumphs, sulkily turning his head into John’s pillow in lieu of an answer. His hair is a sooty dandelion of ruffled curls, puffed up against the white of the pillowcase.

John grins, pecks a kiss against Sherlock’s naked shoulder, and swings his legs out of bed.

::

Some pointers on how to navigate your life without falling ~~deeper~~ in love with a mad genius, who also happens to be your flatmate:

  * Don’t think about what he looks like in the morning, even when he turns up, ~~rumpled and hideously attractive,~~ in your bed 
  * Refrain from kissing him whenever he says something rude and outrageous
  * Stop imagining him moaning in pleasure — particularly the sounds he makes when you do that thing with your tongue and he… _yeah_
  * Avoid punching yourself in the face with the shower nozzle out of sexual frustration — just use _Scourgify_ instead



::

By the time John’s out of the shower, the Sherlock-shaped lump has migrated from John’s bed to the confines of the sofa — where Sherlock lies, scrunched up like a comma, acres of pale skin goose-pimpling in the chill air of the living room.

John, one hand on the towel draped low around his waist, uses the other to fumble around their kitchen cabinets.

“Sherlock, did you do something to our mugs again? And what have you done with the bloody tea?”

There’s an indecipherable mumble from the living room, which makes John sigh in exasperation before giving up and wandlessly Transfiguring a nearby teaspoon into a temporary metal mug. A twirl of his finger, and the kettle sets itself to boil, bubbling merrily. The clock hanging on the kitchen wall makes a chirruping sound, and John realizes the brass hand with his face on it is inching perilously close to the marker _YOU’RE LATE!_ Sherlock’s own hand points squarely at _SULKING (NOT DIRE)_ , as it usually does. 

(John’s learnt his lesson now — whenever Sherlock’s clock hand goes anywhere near _DIRE STRAITS_ , it immediately triggers a magical pulse that’s keyed to John’s wand, allowing John to Apparate to wherever Sherlock is. John can’t help but feel indebted to Mycroft for that complex, and probably illegal, bit of spell modification.)

John’s just taken his first, soul-bolstering sip of tea when Sherlock pads into the kitchen, eyes still at half-mast, and sinks his head into the crook of John’s shoulder, wrapping his long arms around John’s chest. John’s eyebrows twitch irrepressibly upwards. 

Sherlock’s not usually one for displays of physical affection — his _modus operandi_ is to demand John’s attention in a languid, passive-aggressive way that reminds John of nothing so much as a spoilt Puffskein. Instead of initiating anything, he likes to drape himself in calculated, seductive poses around the flat, until John has no choice but to jump his bones. This soft, sleep-heavy Sherlock is something new, something that twists a kernel of longing in John’s stomach as he turns his head, bumping Sherlock’s nose with his own.

“What’s up with you today? You feeling okay?”

Sherlock mutters something into John’s shoulder, pressing his vowels into John’s shower-damp skin. His hands drift up John’s chest, plucking stealthily at John’s nipples, making John arch his neck in a reflexive shudder.

_“Ahhh.”_

Sherlock maneuvers John so that they’re facing each other, chest-to-chest, and then crowds John back against the kitchen table, nuzzling their noses together. His hands tease the band of John’s skin right above his towel, making John’s stomach tense in a surge of arousal as Sherlock fingers the knot that keeps the towel intact around John’s hips.

“Stay with me today. Don’t go to work,” Sherlock breathes against John’s mouth, before pressing his lips apart in a sweet, feather-light kiss.

Helplessly, John gives Sherlock full rein, letting Sherlock take the lead in a breathless waltz of lips and tongue, a slow, drugging dance that makes John reach up and drag his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He’s hazily aware of Sherlock picking apart the knot on his towel, and the shock of cool air when the towel falls feels like raw silk against his exposed cock, making John groan and thrust against the obscenely tented front of Sherlock’s boxers.

It’s spine-tinglingly gorgeous, like the adrenaline rush of falling without ever hitting the ground, raising all the hairs on John’s skin in a surfeit of sensation. John wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this.

Sherlock’s just wrapped his palm around John’s stiff cock, his thumb circling coyly around John’s slit, when the fireplace erupts in a flash of green flame.

“Sherlock. I have that bubble bath you asked for. Now, what’s this about an emergency — _Merlin’s blooming bollocks!”_

John startles, breaking away from Sherlock, digging his back further into the kitchen table. Haloed against fading green sparks is the singular sight of Lestrade, both hands splayed across his eyes. What John can see of Lestrade’s face is nearly the same shade as his Auror robes — a bright, iridescent scarlet.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock’s voice could comprise the entire dictionary entry under the word _petulant_. “How many times have I reminded you to _text_ before you Floo into the flat?”

John scoops up the discarded towel from the floor, feeling the tips of his ears flush red.

“You said it was an emergency! Christ, I did not need an eyeful of John’s arse. Could the two of you put some clothes on?”

Sherlock flounces into the living room. John tries to drag his gaze away from the kiss-swollen fullness of Sherlock’s mouth as he hastily re-ties his towel. 

“Do you really not have enough brain cells to retain simple instructions… _God!_ ” Sherlock drops into his armchair, tugging his feet up and wrapping his arms around his knees, coiling into a ball of disgruntled frustration.

“I thought John would be on his way to work by now. And I tend to forget you’re not on the Wand Wireless Web like the rest of us — you know…” Lestrade’s voice turns gruff as he rubs a hand sheepishly across the back of his neck, “because of your…condition.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift minutely to light grey, like rainclouds muddling a blue sky. “I’m a Squib, not incontinent. You don’t have to pussyfoot around it.”

Lestrade quirks his lips ruefully. “Yeah, I know.” 

He continues, still shiftily avoiding John’s gaze, “Anyway, I need to be off. Here’s your bubble bath. A word to the wise, eh? Next time, disconnect your fireplace before things get…heavy? John, I’ll let Hit Wizard Sholto know you’re, ah, indisposed. Try to keep this one out of trouble, if you can.”

He grabs a handful of silvery powder from the jar John keeps next to the skull, and hurriedly disappears with a muttered, “Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic,” and a _whoosh_ of emerald green. 

The flat subsides into silence in Lestrade’s wake, silvery motes of Floo Powder drifting through the air. Through the windows, the quiet hush of the city trickles in; streets and shops and cars coming alive for another wintry morning.

“Hey.”

John crouches down in front of Sherlock’s chair, where Sherlock’s hidden his face in the juncture between chair-back and armrest. “Sherlock…” He runs his fingers tenderly through the loose curls on Sherlock’s nape, planting a closed-mouth kiss on the arch of Sherlock’s collarbone. 

Sherlock exhales, his chest deflating, and turns his head towards John, instinctively loosening his arms so John can cuddle closer, sliding onto the chair with him. John can’t help himself — he nips at the cheeky tilt of Sherlock’s nose. “What’s this about bubble bath, hmm? Are you planning another experiment?”

“Mmmm…no.” John kisses the mole on Sherlock’s neck, licking it with his tongue, sipping the salt from Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock closes his eyes, his head tipping backwards. “It’s…a Valentine’s Day present.”

John stills.

“Valentine’s Day?”

“Valerius Valentinus, close friend of Beedle the Bard, captured by Muggles on an ill-advised trip to Rome to research the magical properties of Puffapods. Managed to brew a Sight-Restoring Potion in prison for his jailer’s daughter. Apparated from Rome to London on the day of his execution — the earliest recorded example of cross-country Apparition, no doubt down to his friendship with Beedle, who was sycophantic at best, and dangerously obsessed according to some. Muggles and Wizards seem to think he’s romantic.”

John feels a grin slowly steal across his face. “ _You…_ know about Valentine’s Day?”

Sherlock scowls, a faint blush creeping up those ridiculous cheekbones. “I must have deleted it years ago, but Molly reminded me of the story yesterday. She seemed to think it was relevant…to our situation.”

“Our situation?” John traces the crest of Sherlock’s cheekbone with his thumb, following the line of pink against cream. “You mean…the living situation of a mad genius and his full-time House-Elf, part-time assistant, and some-time trainee Hit Wizard…on the days you actually allow me to go to work?”

“No, John.” Sherlock crooks his lips in a smile — a shy, awkward thing that’s nothing like how he looks when he’s shamming, and that never fails to make John absolutely desperate to snog him senseless. “The situation of a lonely Squib and a Wizard who’s his best friend.”

“You idiot,” John cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, stroking the line of his jaw. “You’re the love of my life, you twat. And what’s this rubbish about being a Squib? You know I couldn’t care less — you don’t need to use magic, you _are_ magic.”

“John—” Sherlock groans, burying his head in John’s shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around John’s chest, “Don’t go to work today. Stay home. Take me to bed.”

John kisses him, curling his tongue around Sherlock’s like how he imagines Sherlock has curled around his heart — exquisitely, inextricably. 

“Alright.” 

The kiss leaves them both breathless, sharing the same air. 

“But you’ll have to pay Lestrade back for the bubble bath, you know. Can’t have you owing Lestrade for my Valentine’s Day present.”

“What? Why not?” 

Despite Sherlock’s pout, his eyes are a gorgeous, boundless blue.

John kisses Sherlock’s nose.

“Because my boyfriend’s a romantic.”

::

Have you ever met someone and thought — _I don’t know who you are, who you’re meant to be, but I’m going to keep you._

Sherlock has.

And he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed reading! I adore feedback =)
> 
> This was originally written for SailorChibi's prompt "soap and reunion", but there is a truly disgraceful lack of both soap and reunions in this fic. To SailorChibi: I'm so sorry - the boys absolutely refused to cooperate; they just wanted to snog all over the place. I hope you enjoyed this fic nonetheless!


End file.
